


La Mort

by denkiisbestboyo



Series: Downhill (Dream SMP/Sleepy Bois Inc.) [4]
Category: Minecraft (Video Game), Video Blogging RPF
Genre: DSMP, Dadza and his sons, Dream Smp, Gen, Ghostbur, Post-Manberg-Pogtopia War on Dream Team SMP (Video Blogging RPF), Suicide, l'manberg, sleepy bois inc - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-11-24
Updated: 2020-11-24
Packaged: 2021-03-09 17:40:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 7,684
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27700154
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/denkiisbestboyo/pseuds/denkiisbestboyo
Summary: He is alive though, he’s sure of it. He breathes deep as he walks, soaking in the scent of birch and oak. The air is heavy in his lungs, but the weight isn’t startling; instead it comforts. There is a feeling of certainty and rightness about it. Breathing is easy, and he’s missed it, in the short time he’d departed.He catches onto the edge of the thought as it runs through his mind. He’s sure of it then - there has been a before and this is the after. Departed… what a strange word for died. It’s easier than trying to understand how he’s alive again though.
Relationships: Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot, Dave | Technoblade & Wilbur Soot & TommyInnit & Phil Watson, Floris | Fundy & Wilbur Soot, Tommyinnit & Toby Smith | Tubbo
Series: Downhill (Dream SMP/Sleepy Bois Inc.) [4]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/2029396
Comments: 23
Kudos: 302
Collections: Mcyt





	La Mort

**Author's Note:**

> Ghostbur makes me want to listen to sad indie music and cry my eyes out, and this is a product of that; enjoy.  
> Also, check out La Mort by the Rare Occasion, v good song, v inspirational.

When he comes to, all he is is alive. He stands himself up from the ground and brushes off his clothes - there are stains along the edge of his jacket, and tears. He must have fallen. Wherever he is, the air smells faintly of smoke. It’s not unfamiliar, but he can’t quite place how he knows it’s not.

He looks at the land around him. He’s in a cave maybe… or he thinks it used to be a cave, perhaps. A portion of the wall in front of him is missing, and he can see a large crater stretching out in front of him, the remains of what was once some sort of town still smoldering. He looks down at his clothes again, and thinks the stains might be blood. They’re the right color, after all. 

He looks again at the ruin in front of him. His intuition tells him this is a warzone. What is he doing here? Places like this aren’t safe - perhaps that is why he can’t remember anything. He is a survivor of whatever crime happened here. 

There is a tunnel behind him, leading away from the crater, and he follows it without really thinking because there is nowhere else to go. He can hear water dripping from the ceiling, and the faint rustling of the wind through the trees. It’s strange, he thinks, that there were no people when he looked out over the wreckage. No one picking through the ruins looking for the remnants of their homes, no echoes of metal clashing in the distance. The only sound had been the faint crunching and settling of the charred ground.

The tunnel leads him to a forest. The sunlight streams through the branches of the trees and casts dappled patterns on the ground, and a breeze grazes his face, moving his snatching at the ends of his hair and jostling his hat. He pulls off the knit cap and stuffs it in his pocket, enjoying the feeling of the wind in his hair. 

He has felt this before, he is sure of it. It comes back to him in a flash - he is standing on the edge of the sea on a cliff, looking out over a dock of some sort. There are people milling about below him, but he isn’t paying attention to them. The wind ruffles his hair and he smiles, tasting the salt in the breeze. The jacket is newer here, without as many tears or stains, but it has been well loved, he can tell. 

The memory disappears almost as quickly as it came, and he is left only with the memory of salt in the wind. 

This is the first time he thinks that he might have died. 

It makes sense. Awake, suddenly, in the middle of a warzone, with no real recollection of who he is or what he was doing. Perhaps, he was not a survivor then. Perhaps whatever had tore the wall off of the cave had torn him apart too. Perhaps he had been hiding. 

The wind rushes by again, and he sticks his hands in his pockets. They are empty, but he wouldn’t know if he’d have lost anything anyway. The shadows in the forest stretch, and he guesses that it’s late afternoon. He begins to wander, because he can, and because he would rather not just stand outside the place he’d possibly died in. It feels too solemn, though he can’t quite understand why. 

He is alive though, he’s sure of it. He breathes deep as he walks, soaking in the scent of birch and oak. The air is heavy in his lungs, but the weight isn’t startling; instead it comforts. There is a feeling of certainty and rightness about it. Breathing is easy, and he’s missed it, in the short time he’d departed. 

He catches onto the edge of the thought as it runs through his mind. He’s sure of it then - there has been a  _ before _ and this is the after. Departed… what a strange word for died. It’s easier than trying to understand how he’s alive again though. 

The trees in front of him grow thicker and taller before they disappear altogether and he’s standing in front of a river, watching the water splash and roll over the rocks. The breeze is more prominent here, and he sits down, enjoying the chatter of the water and the cool air. The jacket is a buffer between him and the ground, and he almost feels bad about sitting down on it before he remembers all the stains and decides one more can’t hurt. 

He pulls his knees up to his chest and hugs them close, resting his chin in the little valley between the bones. Around him, nature breathes as well. It seems so far from the crater and the cave here, though it can’t be, as he’s only walked for a few minutes. 

His stomach rumbles, and he looks down at his abdomen. Maybe it had been more than a few minutes, if he was already hungry. Or maybe his… departure… had required a lot of energy. Either way, he will need something to eat soon. 

He can feel the memory on the tip of his tongue before it takes over this time. Warm and woody… he can feel the grit of the flour and the ground wheat under his nails and on the pads of his fingers. Bread. And a bakery.

The memory disappears without leaving him any sense of direction. There was a bakery, but where? It was probably better not to try and find it, lest he wind up lost… though he didn’t exactly know where he was now so maybe it didn’t matter. 

His stomach rumbled again. But maybe he didn’t have the energy to go on another walk and search either. 

Looking back at the river in front of him, he watched the shadows move under the current, picking out the little minnows that swirled around under the silt. Fish… he could fish. 

Standing up, he broke a branch off of a nearby tree, making sure it was flexible and green. Next, (with a silent apology to the jacket) a long string off the bottom of his coat to serve as the line. There would have to be no hook, but he tied a beetle on the end of the string to serve as the bait, and hoped that it would work. 

He tossed the line in and sat back down to wait. 

As he waited, he looked closer at the river, peering past the rushing water and into the rocky under layers, watching fish swim up close to his beetle bait only to dart away. He jerked the string away from an interested pufferfish - he would rather not be poisoned today.

Another riddle from the depths of his mind. He knew this world. He knew that pufferfish were dangerous, and that the trees around him were mostly oak and birch. He is a part of this place as much as it is a part of him, but the  _ how _ evades him. 

He’s so deep in thought that he almost misses the salmon that snatches the end of his line. The pole almost jerks out of his hand, but he catches it and tugs back. It’s a fight, and for a few seconds he’s sure the fish is going to get away, but he pulls it out at the last second, and it flops on the shore, trying to wriggle back into the river. 

The pink scales trigger something in the back of his mind, and then there’s another memory - a fleeting glimpse of another salmon and a name on his lips-

“Sally.” He says it aloud, his voice scratchy and deep and not at all what he sounds like in his head. Maybe it’s from the disuse. 

The salmon flops some more and he tosses it back into the river. It’s wrong to eat now that he remembers her. 

He digs up another beetle and tries for a trout instead. 

* * *

It isn’t long before he finds others. They’re all around the crater, hidden in their own little abodes all connected by great rail systems and wooden pathways. If he had climbed down into the burn mark, he would have found them sooner. 

He wanted to ask about the bakery, but there were more important matters to address. 

They all know him. They look at him with disbelief when he emerges from the wood, and he catches the unbridled emotion in their eyes - some of them stare him down with contempt and disdain, some of them won’t even look him in the eye, but there are a few that look at him with such adoration… he doesn’t understand it. 

Until a man in a crown comes up to him and grips him by the shoulder, pulling him into a tight embrace. He calls him brother, and then he remembers. 

Technoblade is a little boy in the memory. His hair is a chin length mess of bright pink curls now, but it will grow longer until he has to teach him how to braid it. The braid will always be messy though, and the loose hairs will flow in the wind like the capes Techno will become fond of.

For now though, he is a little boy, and they are sparring with wooden swords. Techno’s underbite is prominent even now, and the beginnings of his little fangs are just appearing from underneath his bottom lip. He grins maniacally as he charges at him again, sword held tight and steady. 

He swings his own sword to try and parry the thrust, but Techno is already faster than him and the wooden point stings against his ribs where it hits. All his breath leaves him at once and he topples to the ground. 

When his breath comes back to him, Techno has extended a hand down to help him up out of the grass. 

He knows Techno will always be better at fighting than him. Techno is the better brother - he is smart and quiet and oh so kind to those he cares about. 

Technoblade does not let go of him for a while, and the hug outlasts the memory. 

He pulls away to look Techno in the eye. His mask is hanging from his belt, the skull of a hog hollowed out to fit his face. He is glad that Techno’s not wearing it for once. He scans his eyes over his face. Techno’s underbite is the same, and his eyes are still the same shade of deep red and he still looks at him with the same undying friendship that has always been there, adopted or not. 

There are notable differences between this Techno and the one he remembers though. This Techno is weary and beaten. The others gathered around look at him with a mix of fear and awe, like he is some sort of god amongst men, both great and terrible. 

The most important thing though, is that his braid is almost completely undone, the long curls hanging loose around his face. 

“Your braid…” He says, still not entirely used to his voice. He touches the pink curls gently, moving them behind Techno’s ear. Techno stands stock still and lets him.

“You remember?” Techno asks. 

He isn’t sure how to respond and he doesn’t get the chance to before someone is pushing Techno aside and grabbing his hand. 

“Wilbur!” The boy says, his eyes alight with hope. “What do you remember?”

He draws his hand back and the hope dies in the boy’s eyes. The name rolls around in his head, echoing inside his skull. Wilbur. The boy had called him Wilbur. That’s his name. 

It doesn’t feel like it fits quite right. 

Wilbur turns his attention back to the boy. He’s by no means small, even next to Technoblade, but there is a certain youthful gangliness about him - it’s evident he’s not fully grown. The thing that strikes Wilbur most is his eyes; they’re a bright and joyful blue, clear as the sky and bright as the sun. Everything about him screams youth. 

It’s his youthfulness that brings the memory back to Wilbur. He knows this boy’s laugh just as well as he knows his disgruntled huff. He’s a child; a younger brother. He knows the feel of this boy as he ruffles his hair and gently knocks him on the head, calls him a baby with a laugh. 

“Tommy.” Wilbur says, and his eyes light back up. 

Tommy turns back to the others. “He remembers!”

Wilbur wants to correct him, but he doesn’t want to see the hope in his eyes die again. 

Another boy steps forward, ears twitching from where they stick out of his cap. He can’t be that much older than Tommy. His hair is a bright and striking auburn, somewhere between a chocolatey brown and salmony pink, and his eyes are deep and brown, looking at Wilbur with caution. 

He’s wary for some reason. 

It’s when Wilbur notices the tail that the rest of it comes back to him. He sees Fundy as a small child, the tail sticking out beneath a white ruffled skirt. And then, years later, rolling down a grassy hill as a little boy, the same cap he wears now too big on him. His ears are too big for his head for years, and he doesn’t grow into them until he’s a gangly teenager.

“Fundy.” Wilbur says, a smile playing on his lips. 

Fundy meets his eyes fully, and the memory from the river comes back, a flash of glittering pink scales superimposed on the picture of a little boy sitting on Wilbur’s lap, his tail thumping against Wilbur’s leg. This is his  _ son _ . 

The distance between them and the wariness in Fundy’s eyes is all the more potent as Fundy moves to the side, not saying anything. 

Behind Fundy is a girl with flour on her overalls and blonde streaks in her hair. She is the bakery - Niki, the sweetest one of them all. Wilbur already knows that her nose wrinkles when she smiles and that she’s sharper than she looks on the outside. A familiar tune dances on the edge of his memory in her voice, but it escapes him before he can wrap a hand around it to keep it. 

What he’s not expecting is for Niki to stay by Fundy’s side, looking at him with the same disdain and wariness that his son has in his eyes. A stone sinks in Wilbur’s stomach. Something is wrong. 

He is about to reach out to them when the last of the group steps forward. A man in a green striped bucket hat and a long coat, not unlike the one Wilbur wears now. He looks as Wilbur with a careful eye, but not the same jarring caution that Niki and Fundy share. Something about this man is warm, and when he puts his hand on Wilbur’s arm, it clicks together. 

Philza stood tall in front of Wilbur in this memory, for Wilbur is only a boy armed with a wooden sword when the spider crawls out of the tree, mandibles bared to attack. His father is more prepared though, and slices the thing in two before Wilbur can even realize what’s happening. The spider is dead and Philza is hoisting Wilbur up onto his hip, telling him that everything is alright. 

Wilbur leans into the touch and hugs his father close. “Dad.”

Philza exhales slowly, wrapping his arms around his son. “Everything’s going to be alright.”

* * *

They give him a room full of books. It’s a nice place, with a roaring fire always keeping the room cosy and warm, and an old armchair for him to sit and read in. Wilbur spends most of his time here, just reading. Every once in a while, one of the books strikes a chord with him, and he remembers. 

It’s the Declaration of Independance that does it first and the most. 

He runs his fingers over the edges of the pages. Some of them are singed, and the leather cover is burned in some spots. This book is old, and has been through a lot. It’s a miracle it survived after the explosion took the van.

The van. Wilbur remembers the smell of the blaze powder that seemed to cling to the walls, and the constant bubbling of the stands they used to make their concoctions. The place had always had a sticky sort of feel to it, but he had loved it anyway. He can see Tommy there clearly, standing next to Fundy. There are others in the room, but Wilbur can’t place them until he gets to the signatures at the bottom of the page. 

Tubbo. Tubbo was Tommy’s friend… they had fought together for independence. Tubbo liked bees. Tubbo had been there when Wilbur had stumbled out of the wood and found the others, but he hadn’t said anything. They had been close, hadn’t they? He should have been happy…

The next name on the list makes Wilbur’s heart stop. Eret. A surge of hatred flares up in him, and he remembers empty chests and explosions. Eret the traitor. Eret who had been on Dream’s side the entire time and led them to their dooms. If Eret hadn’t been a traitor, they might have won without Tommy having to resort to his disks. 

Wilbur closes his eyes, tasting the anger on his tongue. Eret hadn’t been there when he had found the others… but it made sense. Wilbur doesn’t like him, even in this  _ after _ . He will never forgive Eret, he is sure of it, but for now he pushes the anger aside. 

He opens his eyes, and his own name is looking up at him from the page, in thin loopy handwriting. This is the first time he’s seen his own signature… it’s pretty. The ink curls around the letters of his name easily. He runs his finger over the marks, stopping at the end of his name. There’s a dash mark, and then-

President. 

Wilbur looks down at the title. He’d been a leader… 

A hole opened up in his chest, leaving him empty and aching. L’Manberg had been a fine country. He can see the flag in his memory, and the great black walls that had kept them safe. They won the fight in the end, even with Eret’s betrayal. He can see Tommy facing off against Dream on the same wooden path he had walked before, and he can hear himself counting their paces. 

They won their independence, so what had happened to L’Manberg? 

The sound of the door creaking on it’s hinges brings Wilbur back to reality and he closes the declaration, setting it aside on the table next to his chair. He usually has visitors around this time of day, and Fundy’s presence isn’t unusual. 

Fundy smiles thinly at him as he steps inside, hanging his cap on the hook near the door and setting a basket down. “Hi Dad.”

Wilbur smiles and gets up from his seat, taking his son’s coat and hanging it by the fire so that it will be nice and warm for him when he leaves. He grabs the stool from the side of the room and brings it over as well. He’s about to sit down when Fundy stops him. 

“Dad, please just sit in your chair.” He says. They have had this argument before, and they will have it again. 

Wilbur waves a hand through the air, dismissing him. “I sit in that chair all day, I can suffer on the stool for a few hours. You walked all the way here - sit.”

Fundy sighs in defeat and sits down, placing the basket on his lap. “Niki made cake, so I brought some.” His tail curls around his leg and Wilbur resists the urge to stroke it.

Instead, he accepts the cake that Fundy gives him, and pops the strawberry on top into his mouth, savoring the sweetness. He can taste Niki in this cake, and he can picture the careful way she would roll out the batter and pick out the perfect strawberries to go on top. She has only visited him a few times, and he wishes she would come more. 

Still, now is not the time to talk about Niki though. There are more pressing questions digging into the back of his mind.

“Fundy,” Wilbur leads in. Fundy’s ears twitch. “What happened to L’Manberg?”

Fundy flinches. It’s almost imperceptible, just a twitch of the tail and his ears flatten to his head slightly, but suddenly there’s diluted panic in his eyes. “What do you remember?”

Wilbur looks back down at the cake resting on a cloth napkin in his lap and breaks off another piece, savoring the sugary taste. “I was reading the declaration.” He said. “And I remembered the van, and the walls and the flag. I remember Tubbo… and Eret.” He looks back up at Fundy. “I was the President, wasn’t I?”

Fundy relaxes some, whatever he was expecting Wilbur to say, he didn’t. It’s evident that he doesn’t know where to go though, he opens his mouth about four times without saying anything, and when he does, it’s a simple, “Well, it’s… complicated.”

From that reaction alone, Wilbur knows that something has happened to his country. Immediately his mind jumps back to the crater he’d woken up next to, and the steaming scorched ground. That hadn’t looked like the L’Manberg from his memory though - there were no walls, destroyed or not, and there was no sign of the van. Still, he has to make sure.

“It’s not… gone… is it?” Wilbur asks. 

“No.” Fundy says. “L’Manberg is still around. Um.” He pauses. “Tubbo’s the president now.”

Wilbur breaks off another piece of the cake, rolling it between his fingers before eating it. Tubbo would make a good president, from what Wilbur remembers. He’s kind, and fair. It’s probably better that their president is actually alive.

“That’s good.” Wilbur says. Fundy still looks uncomfortable though, so Wilbur decides to let the topic rest, and pulls his chessboard out from the bookshelf. “Would you like to play?”

Fundy smiles sadly, and slides the chair closer, setting the pieces up on the board.

* * *

Technoblade visits Wilbur the most. He comes at least twice a week and stays for long stretches of time. Wilbur thinks he might be lonely, or that the others might be mad at him. He can’t remember anything Techno has done that would earn him the scorn of the people though, and he’s barely mentioned in any of the books. 

Technoblade always sits on the stool, even though Wilbur offers the armchair to him every time. 

They’re playing chess now, and Techno is winning by a mile. He moves his rook forward and takes one of Wilbur’s bishops, putting his king in check as well. Wilbur sits back, looking at the board for any way that he could possibly win this. 

If there is one, it escapes him. 

He moves his king to the side, content to just evade Techno for as long as he can. His loss is inevitable at this point, but he knows that they’ll play again.

Technoblade moves his queen and takes Wilbur’s last knight. 

Wilbur watches his calculating eyes dart across the board, seeing every opportunity and strategy laid out before him. Techno is a man of war, and Wilbur has no doubts that somehow, he knows about the wasteland Wilbur woke up in. This is another game they play. 

“Techno,” Wilbur starts. 

Technoblade’s eyes darted up to match his. 

“Do you know what happened to L’Manberg?”

Techno blinks, and Wilbur moves one of his pawns closer to Techno’s side, hoping to get one of his knights back. Technoblade is too smart though, and his bishop takes Wilbur’s pawn easily. 

“Tubbo’s the president now.” Techno says. Wilbur finds his deep and monotone voice comforting.

“I know.” Wilbur says. Tubbo has never visited him. “I used to be the president.”

Techno agrees. “You did.”

“Was I a good president?” Wilbur asks. He remembers people cheering for him, and he can see a crowd of smiling faces in his memory, but there is no why attached. 

Techno does not look him in the eye when he answers. “I thought you were good.”

Wilbur moves his rook forward and lets the subject drop.

* * *

It’s a while before he leaves his library. The books and the visitors have been a comfort for him, but it’s only so long before he’s read them all twice, and he can’t remember who’s won the most chess games. It’s then he decides to leave. He misses the trees, and he wants to find the sea again.

The sun feels nice on his skin when he steps outside and he enjoys it as he wanders through the construction for a while. They’re fixing the crater, building new homes and shops and community buildings, and Wilbur is happy for them. Seeing them come together to rebuild what was lost gives him hope.

Perhaps, if he tries, he can regain what he lost as well. 

It would be nice to climb back up to that cave and see the construction from up there, he thinks. 

The path comes to mind easily, and he sticks his hands into the pockets of his jacket and heads off, following the trees around the back of the hill where he knows the tunnel will be. He’s walked this path before, he’s sure of it. 

It reminds him of that first day, in a way. The forest is quiet around him, and he can hear the soft chatter of the river in the distance. He was wearing his jacket then too. Some of the stains have faded now, but the rips are still there. He isn’t sure how to fix it. He isn’t sure he wants to.

He finds the hill and then the tunnel. The ceiling is shorter than he remembers and he stoops to step inside. The sun leaves him at the entrance but he continues on. He knows what will be waiting for him at the end, and the view will be worth it. 

He’s been surrounded by stone before. A ravine, with bridges and pathways crawling up the side and netting together into a web of building. The ceiling was not so oppressive there, and the sun still shone down into the darkness.

He stops in the tunnel for a moment before he continues walking. 

The writing on the walls of the cave is still there, and he recognizes it as his own handwriting now. The scrawled words make more sense than they did before, and he traces his fingers over the scratches, the same repeating words over and over again. My L’Manberg. 

It was his, at one point, wasn’t it?

Something catches his eye on the floor, and he stoops down to peer at it. An arrow, the tip stained a shiny blue. Poison. He dares not touch it, no matter how long it had been sitting here-

Techno’s armory. Black stone and chests that lined the walls. There was so much there, it would be impossible for them to lose now. Wilbur had never been prouder of his brother than in that moment, and he clapped him on the shoulder as his men suited up.

The only thing Wilbur had taken were arrows.

The memory was like a shock. Arrows. 

He stands up and considers leaving. Something about this place is triggering memories like they’re nothing, but maybe that’s not a bad thing. If he can figure out how he died-

Ash. He can taste it on his tongue for a second before the wall blows apart and he’s cast to the ground. He can see the destruction now, a large crater opening up in the ground, swallowing everything that had been in the way. Someone was in the blast but they land in the water nearby. There are shouts, and the smoke billows up in clouds. 

His hand is singed from where he pressed the button. 

“Wilbur.” 

He turns, Philza is there, and he’s looking out at the wreckage with disbelief. His hand tightens around the hilt of the sword he’s holding.

He’s hugging Phil and then he’s being wrent apart, torn in two and there’s such a pain in his chest he wants to die, he wants Phil to just finish it already-

Wilbur comes back to reality and falls to his knees, looking at the missing wall of the cave in front of him. 

A wavering hand grips the front of his shirt, right where the sword had plunged through him. There’s no mark, but there’s an ache he didn’t notice before. 

Phil had stabbed him.

He had pressed a button and Phil had stabbed him. 

Wilbur gets to his feet, stumbles forward, and pitches himself over the edge of the cliff, tumbling down into the construction below him, jacket billowing in the wind. 

* * *

He doesn’t leave his library again. He’s confused as to why the fall didn’t kill him; he’s been dead once after all. The pain in his chest won't leave him alone now that he knows it’s there, and he knows why people look at him the way they do now. The crater didn’t kill him.

Philza killed him because he pressed the button. 

He doesn’t want to know why he pressed the button. He wants to go back to when he didn’t know that old Wilbur was a terrible president and a maniac and destroyed his own country. He wants to be dead again, and not to know why Philza doesn’t meet his eyes entirely when he visits or why Fundy and Niki were so wary when he had stumbled out of the wood that first day. 

He’s a monster, and no one bothered to tell him. 

They all acted like it was fine, like there was nothing wrong, like they were happy to see him. They hated him, he knew they did. He ruined everything. They should have shot him down again when he had first walked out of the woods, they should have gotten rid of him while he didn’t know, weren’t they worried that he would regress back into the person he once was-

The door creaked on it’s hinges and Technoblade stepped into the room, hanging his cape on the hook by the door. His braid was slung over his shoulder, messy and loose, and he smiled at Wilbur as he grabbed the stool.

It wasn’t a moment before Techno paused, hovering. “You’re upset.”

“Nobody told me.” Wilbur said. 

There’s a new sort of wariness in Technoblade’s eyes as he sits down. “No one told you about what?”

“Our father killed me.” Wilbur said, his vision going blurry. “He killed me.”

“Wilbur-”

“You said you thought I was a good president.” Wilbur said. “You said I was a good president. Why didn’t you murder me on the spot when I came back?” He can feel the tears dripping down his face and into his sweater. 

Technoblade gets up from his seat, reaching towards Wilbur, but he bats the hand away and gets up. 

“I was terrible.” Wilbur says, running a hand along the spines of his books. “I was awful and our father killed me and everyone hates me and they should.” His voice breaks. “It’s not fair.”

He grabs one of the tomes and heaves it into the fire, watching the flames eat the pages. Techno’s hand goes to his scabbard and wraps around the hilt of his sword but he doesn’t draw. 

“Why am I back here?” Wilbur sobs, his chest heaving now. He wishes he would just stop breathing. “Everyone was better off without me.” He grabs more books and throws them into the fire. They land scattered across the edge of the fireplace and the flames lick at more than just the novels - Technoblade grabs his heavy cloak and bats the flames out before they destroy much.

“Wilbur, what are you doing?” Techno asks.

Wilbur sags forward, his hands falling on his brother’s shoulders. “Kill me again.” He pleads, one hand moving down to Technoblade’s sword to pull it from its sheath. 

Technoblade grips Wilbur’s wrist, stopping him. “Wilbur, no-”

“Please.” Wilbur cries. “I tried to do it myself but it didn’t work-”

For the first time since Wilbur has seen him, Techno looks scared. Wilbur tugs at the hand holding his wrist but Techno doesn’t budge, he only tightens his grip around Wilbur’s hand and pulls down to the floor, clutching him to his chest. 

Wilbur is enveloped by Technoblade. He fists his free hand into the ruffles of his shirt and buries his face into his shoulder. Loose pink curls fall around both of them and when Techno tilts his head forward his crown falls off and lands on the floor with a loud clank. 

Wilbur lets himself weep. His whole body wracks with sobs as he just lets Technoblade hold him. He wants to be gone so desperately that it hurts and the pain in his chest expands tenfold; becoming more than just the echo of his father’s blade. They must sit there for hours, Techno’s grip never wavering. 

It takes a while before Wilbur realizes that Techno is crying too. Wilbur doesn’t know why.

* * *

He stops trying to kill himself when he realizes it wont work. No matter what he tries, he always walks away. Something is holding him here.

He thinks it might be a punishment. 

Trapped in a place where everyone hates him; a place that he started turned against him and rightfully so. He destroyed it. Trapping his soul here is the perfect way for him to repay his crimes. 

Technoblade must have told someone what happened that day because more people start trying to visit him. Fundy sits outside his door for hours when Wilbur doesn’t let him in, and when Wilbur goes to leave later, his son is crouched against the wall, asleep with his cap over his eyes.

Tommy brings Tubbo with him one day and it’s bad - Wilbur can’t look him in the eye without remembering the damned declaration and the word president written next to his own name. Tommy and Tubbo leave after ten minutes.

He swears one morning he hears Eret mumbling to someone outside the door. Wilbur doesn’t recognize the other voice, but Eret calls them Sapnap, and the name strikes a chord within Wilbur - vision of a burning forest and nothing else. Wilbur doesn’t open the door when they knock.

He’s starting to wish he hadn’t thrown books in the fire. Long hours in one room start to grate after a while, but he won’t let himself leave. He doesn’t think he would survive going outside now.

Someone is here. 

He can sense a presence outside the door, hovering. It’s not Technoblade or Tommy or Fundy. He catches a flash of green through the slim window and Wilbur’s heart stops. 

Philza.

He is halfway to locking the door when Philza opens it and steps into the room. Wilbur’s hand hovers between them and it was obvious what he was going to do. Philza takes his hat off and hangs it on the hook by the door. His blue eyes lock with Wilbur’s and there’s pity there, along with remorse. 

“Wil-”

Wilbur is out the door before he knows he’s moving, brushing past Philza and darting away. He doesn’t want his pity or his explanations or to see the way he’ll dance around what he really wants to say - I’m ashamed to have you as a son.

Wilbur already knows, so he runs.

He dashes through the construction sites and into the forest. Philza will follow him if he goes to the river, so he turns in a different direction and keeps going, feet slapping against the ground, and the underbrush catching on his ankles. Low branches and tall weeds snatch at his elbows but he pays them no mind. 

He isn’t sure how long or far he runs. When he runs, breathing is painful, and his mind is empty and it’s better that way so he keeps going until he comes across a cliff and he has to stop. A fallen log is laying on the ground and he sits down, leaning his back against it and just breathing. 

The sun is setting now, and In the distance, he can see the bright lights of the town. Everything looks so small from here. He could crush it between his fingers if he wanted.

He didn’t even notice he was crying until the tears fell off his chin and into the dirt. He pulled his knees up into his chest and hugged his legs close, resting his head between his knees. 

“Why are you crying?” 

Wilbur turned his head. The man wore a suit, pressed and sharp, and a bright red tie. Horns curled down from his temples, the pointed ends lost in his mutton chops. He eyed Wilbur suspiciously, and something about the expression was familiar, but the connection eluded Wilbur. He didn’t think he had seen the man before. 

Wilbur wiped the tears away from his cheeks. “I’m a terrible person.”

The man’s lips quirked up and he snorted before breaking out into a barking laugh. It shocked Wilbur out of his crying, and he watched the man chuckle and giggle.

“Why are you laughing?” Wilbur asked. 

The man plopped down next to him, resting against the log. “Aren’t we all terrible people?”

“Of course not.” Wilbur said. 

“What makes you so sure?” The man asked. 

He opened his mouth to answer, a flood of things coming to the tip of his tongue. The way Tommy and Tubbo looked out for each other, how Technoblade carried people around for no reason, Philza’s exasperated smile as he scratched behind Fundy’s ears. Niki… everything about her.

But then, Tommy and Tubbo were preparing for another war. Technoblade was feared by everyone Wilbur had met so far. Philza had stabbed him to death. Fundy’s bared teeth, and Niki’s narrowed eyes. They had fought and killed in the revolution, and Wilbur was sure there were other things he didn’t remember. 

Wilbur closed his mouth.

The man shrugged, satisfied. “Told you.”

“What’s your name?” Wilbur asked. 

The man paused, and then shrugged again. “Don’t know.”

Wilbur looked closer at the man. Something about him was  _ off _ . There was a certain blurring at the edges, and a transparency around the tips of his fingers…

“You’re like me.” Wilbur said. “You’re dead.”

The man shrugged again. “So what if I am?”

Wilbur settled back against the log, getting more comfortable and letting go of his knees. There was something reassuring about being in the same space as someone like him. Perhaps this man had also committed atrocious crimes, or maybe he had just died in the explosion, like Wilbur thought he had in the beginning. 

“I haven’t seen anyone else like us yet.” Wilbur said. “I’m Wilbur.”

“How do you know?” The man asked. 

“My brother told me.” He said. 

“You have a brother?”

Wilbur nodded. “I have two. I didn’t remember them until I saw them though. If you can figure out where you were when you were alive, you might be able to get your memories back.”

The man pointed down at the lights of the city. “I woke up down there.”

“Why’d you leave?” Wilbur asked. 

“I don’t know.” The man said. “It felt… like I wasn’t wanted there.”

Wilbur looked down at the lights. He could place where the buildings were in his minds eye, but from the cliff, it was just a blur of lights. There was a certain magnetism to it though, like the place was calling to Wilbur.

“It doesn’t reach out to you?” Wilbur asked. 

The man shook his head. 

“Why does it want me there?” Wilbur asked. “I don’t belong there.”

“Says who?” The man asked. 

A lump formed in Wilbur’s throat. “I destroyed that place. I was a terrible person - my own father killed me after I detonated a bomb that tore apart the whole city-”

“So you were a maniac.” The man interrupted, his voice flat and unimpressed. 

“I’m awful.” Wilbur said. 

“You  _ were _ awful.” The man corrected. “I don’t know about you, but I’m pretty sure whoever I was sure as hell is not whoever I am now. I can’t even remember my own goddamn name.” He said. 

“You don’t care?” Wilbur asked. 

“It’s not that I don’t care, it's just that… it doesn't feel important.” The man said. “It’s not like I can go back and change it.”

Wilbur let that roll around in his mind for a moment. Nothing about that statement was false - it was impossible for Wilbur to go back. But it felt so important - who he was would make who he was now.

But… did it have to?

“It doesn’t have to.” Wilbur whispered. 

The man raised an eyebrow. 

“The past isn’t the future.” He said. “I might have been terrible then, but that doesn’t mean I have to be terrible now.”

The man just smiled as Wilbur stood up. His head knocked back against the log as he looked up at Wilbur. 

“Thank you.” Wilbur said. “If you ever want some company, I have a little home down there.” He pointed at the lights. “I have books, and chess.”

The man just waved a lazy hand in dismissal. “We’ll see.”

Wilbur thanked him once more before disappearing back into the woods. The trees cast long shadows, and he knows it won’t be long before the creatures of the night come out, but he isn’t worried. 

The pain in his chest is finally starting to fade.

* * *

He’ll make L’Manberg better. It’s the least he could do after he’s already made it so, so, so much worse. 

It’s little things, and then only when no one is looking. He repairs fences and fixes holes in the floors and puts torches down in the dark spots, and then when the sun rises and the city wakes up again, he goes back to his library and sleeps. Wilbur doesn’t want recognition. He wants to know that he’s doing good, and that he’s doing it for L’Manberg. 

The man with the horns never comes to visit, but Wilbur makes sure to leave the door unlocked anyway, just in case. He considers going back to that cliff and finding him again, maybe to repay the favor, but something tells him the man would rather be left alone. It feels like the same things that draws him to L’Manberg, so Wilbur leaves him be.

He knows that there’s no real way to make amends. Even with the reconstruction, the crater he caused still gapes, a scar on the land. Still, he hopes the little things will make up for it eventually. 

He has so much to make up for. 

When Wilbur returned from the cliffside, Phil was gone, and he hasn’t tried to visit since. He wants to apologize and to make amends with his father, but Philza has all but disappeared from the face of the earth - Wilbur thinks he might be avoiding him. 

So he starts making the lanterns. 

Simple Chinese lanterns, in whatever colors he has on hand. He strings them up all around the city and lets them loose in the sky. He doesn’t quite know why he makes them, but the muscles in his hands remember the motions, and somehow, they’re connected to Phil.

He’s setting a few loose when Techno stumbles upon him. It’s the dead of night, and neither of them are supposed to be here, really. 

Wilbur almost lets the last one go, but stops, and hands it to his brother. 

Techno’s calloused fingers latch on to the lantern gently, and he looks at it with a sort of bittersweet nostalgia. At this point, Wilbur knows about the Withers. He knows about the chaos and the betrayal and it seems like their whole family might be full of awful people, but he loves him anyway.

Technoblade lets the lantern go in the breeze and it drifts off in the air. They watch it fly away, and Wilbur puts his hand on Techno’s shoulder and squeezes. 

“We can make it better.” He says. 

“I can’t.” Technoblade says. 

“You can.” Wilbur insists. He knows Technoblade - he knows that as much as Techno hates the idea of government and an organized state, that too many people he cares about are involved for him to do more than mildly annoy them. And after what they did.. “You owe it to them.”

Techno shrugs Wilbur’s hand off his shoulder. “Do you even remember the lanterns?” He asks. 

Wilbur looks at his glowing creation, floating away in the wind. “It has something to do with Phil.”

“You and Dad used to make them together.” Techno says. 

It comes back to Wilbur then. His tiny hands next to Phil’s larger ones, carefully folding and creasing the paper before affixing it to the rest of the lantern. The paper is red and thin under Wilbur’s fingers. Phil guides him through the process, and they release the lantern out the window and watch it float away on the breeze. 

Wilbur looks now, at the lantern Techno had let go, barely a speck of light in the distance. “Do you think Dad is mad at me?”

Technoblade says nothing for a while, and his voice is bitter when he speaks. “I think he got more than he bargained for with us.”

Wilbur leans up against Techno, draping part of his cape around his shoulders. “I don’t want him to be disappointed in us.”

Techno’s laugh is merely a huff of air. “I think it’s a little late for that.”

They watch the lantern until it catches fire. It disappears in a burst of light, as all the lanterns had, and then the only light is that of the rising sun.

**Author's Note:**

> follow me on wattpad @lillianna1125 and @simpforthebloodgod on tumblr


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